“Quite,” said Hamilton, confidently.
“I have been able to discover nothing more than this,” said the doctor, with something like annoyance in his tone. “I do not know whether you have been writing with invisible ink. This is a mistake, Hamilton,” he added, turning the blank sheet in all directions. “Where is your poem?”
“That in my envelope, sir!” exclaimed Hamilton, reddening to the roots of his hair. “In my envelope!” he reiterated, taking up the envelope and re-examining it in a state of tremulous excitement. “I cannot have made such a mistake—it is utterly impossible.”
“I should say so—impossible, unconsciously, to make so great a mistake,” said the old gentleman.
“And equally so, sir, to make it consciously,” replied Hamilton.
“But where is the poem?” asked Dr. Wilkinson.
“I expected it was here,” said Hamilton—“and, as it is not, I cannot answer that question, sir.” He again turned over the paper, but could find no clue to the mystery.
“Is the paper the same as you used?” asked Mr. James.
“It is,” replied Hamilton; “and the seal is my own, as well as the writing.”
“What is the seal?” asked Dr. Berry, the old gentleman.